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They drew upon the least active portion of the American sub-consciousness, and reflect memories not of experience, contact, live thought, but of books. Even Washington Irving, our first great author, is not free from this indictment.
"Rip van Winkle washed," said Gwen. "Because Washington Irving chose. I sometimes imagine Rip isn't really true. Anyhow, his case doesn't apply. He remembered everything as if it was yesterday. For him, it was yesterday. So he was the same man, both in theory and practice. Jack and Jim and Polly were to forget, by hypothesis." "Does old Mrs. Picture?" asked Irene.
After the notification of his nomination had been sent to Irving, and Webster thought time enough had elapsed for him to receive it, he remarked to a friend: "Washington Irving is now the most astonished man in the city of New York." When Irving heard the news he seemed to think less of the distinction conferred upon him than of the unhappiness of being once more banished from his home.
That not being a matter of any difficulty, the same night the three men met Irving at his own house, and were delighted over the revelation he made to them.
It is over twenty years since the death of Washington Irving removed that personal presence which is always a powerful, and sometimes the sole, stimulus to the sale of an author's books, and which strongly affects the contemporary judgment of their merits.
"Only we've had a long day, and mustn't stay out too late." "I speak for Mrs. Irving in my canoe!" called out Betty. "No, mine!" "Ours!" were other cries. Merrily the girls ran into the house to pick up the wraps which were always necessary on the water at night, and in another minute they had rejoined the boys.
Then she locked the door and sat down under the silver poplar to wait for Gilbert, feeling very tired but still unweariedly thinking "long, long thoughts." "What are you thinking of, Anne?" asked Gilbert, coming down the walk. He had left his horse and buggy out at the road. "Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving," answered Anne dreamily.
Indeed, they might aptly be cited in illustration of the widely opposed tendencies already developed in our brief national literature. Two things equal to the same thing are equal to each other; and if Poe and Irving were each equal to Hawthorne, there would be some similarity between them.
It is curious to note the contrast between the cheery, nay Cockney, contempt with which Dickens speaks of the American Indian and that chivalrous and pathetic essay in which Washington Irving celebrates the virtues of the vanishing race. Between Washington Irving and his friend Charles Dickens there was always indeed this ironical comedy of inversion.
If the like relations always obtained, we should not have to say, "May the Lord pity the authors in this world, and the publishers in the next." I have outlined the life of Washington Irving in vain, if we have not already come to a tolerably clear conception of the character of the man and of his books. If I were to follow his literary method exactly, I should do nothing more.
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